


Tharsis Threnody

by ShadowcrestNightingale



Series: Darkwave Chronicles [3]
Category: Cowboy Bebop
Genre: Bounty Hunters, Comrades, Crime Fighting, First Meetings, Syndicate Era (Cowboy Bebop)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-22 19:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12489116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowcrestNightingale/pseuds/ShadowcrestNightingale
Summary: Drifting aimlessly on Mars two weeks after defecting from the Red Dragon Syndicate, Spike collides with Jet for the first time in a dive bar. Caught in a game of manipulation, neither have a clue where the solar winds will take them. "Tharsis Threnody" is a tribute to Spike's untold chapter in the spirit of the series and movie. Some language and violence, marked because it is borderline.





	1. Session 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was crafted trying to keep in mind as much of the anime series 'hints' as possible—what few we manage to get. My idea was to try and explain how they met in as seamless as way as possible with the original material. Jet is meant to seem a bit out of his element in this one, as we know he eventually settles into being Spike's backup most of the time. Spike is intentionally not as humorous most of the time as I figured two weeks wasn't enough to cover his reeling. Though I have seen the fanbase argue over which if his eyes is fake, I have declared it his right due to my own observations that were confirmed in the remarks in the official anime guidebooks. This is also soundly explained in "Dragons of the Darkwave". I hope you guys enjoyed my take.

_**SESSION 1** _

 

_Numb. Like ice penetrated my every cell and stilled my pulse to within one beat from the ultimate end. How long has it been since the graveyard, alone, in the rain? Why? When she had looked at me, there, in her eyes blazed the commitment. I know that's what I saw … wasn't it? She'd pleaded with me, like every other time. The same words … **Baby, come home.** … A commitment so deep only one thing would have prevented her from waiting for me … a lie …_

 

Spike's chin rested on his bare forearm. His wrinkled leisure suit's sleeves rolled back haphazardly. Through half-closed eyes he stared idly at his glass, containing a splash of whiskey, neat. One finger flicked the glass's lip. Ripples shattered the light to dance across the amber fluid. He closed his left eye and watched the strange refraction recorded by his right. Nothing ever lined up correctly since the accident. Always a strange variance in color, clarity, light. Trust one or the other … but did either ever tell him the truth?

 

He'd never be certain.

 

He sighed as the ripples rebounded off the sides of the glass. The turbulent waves canceled one another into calmness. Yup. So little effort to set it back into motion. He flicked the glass again and watched the center rise up in a pillar and slam down, like a bullet fired into a target. The report of a gun filled his memory. His body tensed against the ghost of the pain.

 

When Spike opened his eyes, the alcohol continued its dance to heavy footsteps. The stool beside him slid back and a burly man flopped down. He tapped the bar with his artificial left fingers. A cybernetic arm, from the shoulder down.

 

“Yo,” the man called out to the barkeep. “Give me your strongest. Been a long flight from Ganymede.”

 

_Ganymede to Mars? Even by the gates that's quite a trip._

 

The barkeep flipped a shot glass into the air and grabbed a bottle from the back shelf. He slid the shot in front and held out a hand. “Payment up front, buddy.”

 

The man stiffened a bit. “I plan on drinking a while. No tabs?”

 

“Nope.” The keep gestured to the scattered drunkards in various states of inebriation. “Not in this neighborhood. Too many of these lowlifes skip out without paying. So, cough it up.” The barkeep took the card and ran it. “How many drinks will you be having, Jet? The best way of doing this, really.” He threw Spike a hard glare. “That way when your account is dry I won't be serving a drink you can't pay for.”

 

_ What? I didn't ask you to drain my account of every last woolong. I only neglected to keep track of how much I had left when I sat down. Sheesh.  _ Spike shifted his gaze from the glass before him. Jet, the man beside him barely spared a glance his way. What the heck did this guy think he was wearing? He looked like some oddball, accident-prone mechanic. What was with the scar over his eye and that metal plate? More than anything, Spike noted the authority behind his motions. A controlled drive pummeled into a man through years of service of some kind. Even as he maintained his lazy veneer, Spike's instincts buzzed hot. I.S.S.P. There was little doubt. He didn't need to see a man in uniform to recognize the threat. 

 

_ Threat? What threat? This guy looks like a steady jog would end his ticker. I got more important shit to think about. Like what the hell city did I land in? Why was I stupid enough to blow all I had in dive bars these last … what … two weeks? Where the heck am I going to stay tonight without any woolongs left?  _ He closed his eyes and tried to quiet his thoughts to no avail. This whole plan had gone completely ass backwards on him in a single flash of lightning. 

 

The slap of Jet's hand on the counter snapped open Spike's eyes. “Hey, you from around here?”

 

Spike rolled his head, no.  _ Great. That's all I need. Some Chatty Cathy. What the hell is this guy after? _

 

Leaning on the counter, Jet craned his head and looked out into the dimly lit bar. Among the frayed booth covers and scratched tables, the handful of patrons went about their business. Jet bumped Spike's elbow, nearly dislodging his chin where it still rested on his arm. “You look a bit down on your luck. What do you say we have a bet?”

 

“Not interested.” Spike downed his whiskey in one fiery gulp. “With that goes the last of my fortune.”

 

Jet cracked a grin. “Ok, ok. How about a friendly wager then. I know there's a criminal in here.”

 

“Sure is.” He slid around on the stool and leaned back on the bar.

 

“I'm not leaving without him.”

 

On the far side Spike's hand creapt down and touched the concealed hilt of his Jericho. But to his surprise, Jet peered at the other shadow shrouded patrons in turn. This could prove interesting. Spike slouched against the bar, taking in the fellow patrons for the first time.

 

An old man slumbered in a booth with an empty bottle in his hand. His ragged body clearly hadn't seen the inside of a shower in months, at the soonest. A backpack with various items sticking out from it lay at his feet. Homeless. A desperate man using the purchase of the bottle to grant a roof over his head. Nope. The only crime here was one against hygiene. No true criminal there.

 

Two men sat at a table in the corner exchanging conspiratory whispers. Spike focused on his right eye feed, reading their lips. A laugh escaped him. Shady, though they seemed, they were merely planning a birthday for their brother.

 

There were two others in the bar. A wiry man continued to glance over at the bartender, then back to the door. Dressed in a scruffy attire, he gripped the handle of his beer mug like a vice. The other man wore a decent suit with a briefcase tucked at his feet. Calm and collected, he leaned back in his chair under the light and stared idly into his drink.

 

Jet pointed with one concealed finger to the neurotic man. “Him.”

 

“You're joking, right?” Spike rolled his head back and stared at the ceiling.

 

“I know a criminal when I see one.”

 

Pulling out a cigarette, Spike flicked open the lighter and watched the flame kindle the end. Tendrils of smoke twined into the air. He drew in a deep breath of the smoke with a crooked smile. “Whatever you say, old man.”

 

Jet glared at him. “I'm not old.”

 

“Coulda fooled me. But what would a drifter know?” He puffed out a lung full of smoke and watched as Jet shook his balding head. “You're wrong, by the way. It's him.” Spike jabbed a thumb in the direction of the suit.

 

“Riiiighht.” Jet snorted. “What would a drifter know.”

 

The broadcast behind the bar blared the familiar trumpet call. Spike and Jet both turned to the screen displaying Big Shot's title with Punch and Judy bedecked as old fashioned cowfolk bobbing up and down. Spike smirked, how many times had he watched for tips on rival syndicate hits? How many times had he watched to see if his own name came up? Somehow, by some miracle, it never had.

 

“ _How y'all doing?” Punch gabbed on the screen. “Today we have a hot new tip on a new bounty. A fresh one with a two fer one special, Pardners. Just this mornin' a rare shipment of hush hush material was stolen right from Mar's orbit.”_

 

“ _Stolen? Oh dear!” Judy pipped in. “Do they know who did it?”_

 

“ _Well, authorities got a glimpse of one of the baddies. A no good scoundrel, but they know he wasn't working alone. No'boy! So there is a 500,000 woolong reward for the capture of him and his accomplice, with the return of the property. Alive is the only state that matters. So no killing him!”_

 

“ _Who is he!”_

 

“ _A member of the White Tiger Syndicate, Corlyn Jeeters. Be careful! This hombre likes to blend in and hit below the belt when cornered. He is not alone.”_

 

The picture flashed up on the screen. Spike's smile broadened. Jet's jaw fell open and his gaze turned in alarm to the man with the briefcase. Corlyn Jeeters glared at the screen.

 

Spike flicked the burnt end of his cigarette away and smirked. “But, what would _**I**_ know, right?”

 

With a grunt, Jet pushed up from the bar and shouted to his target, “Don't move!”

 

Jeeters chose that moment to grab his case and dart for the door.

 

“Well now.” Spike grinned. “This just got interesting.”

 

 


	2. Session 2

**SESSION 2**

 

Jeeters proved himself to be exceedingly quick. The man leapt for the door before Jet had managed to take three steps. Of course, the moment Jeeters reached for the knob he recoiled with a yelp. A whiskey glass shattered a fraction of an inch from his fingers.

 

Spike picked up Jet's empty shot glass and tossed it in the air, to the enraged chorus of cries from the barkeeper! Spike caught it deftly and vaulted off of Jet's vacant stool, which toppled to the ground in a crash. In a heartbeat, he cleared the abandoned table executing a full-out flip and landed between Jeeters and the door, shot glass still in hand. “What part of  **don't move** are you having trouble with?”

 

Stuttering, Jeeters took a shambling step backward. “How … did … you were … and now you're … ”

 

The remaining patrons of the bar huddled under the tables, even the barkeeper ducked beneath his hands. The only one not bothered by the ruckus was the drunkard, still growing a puddle of saliva on the scarred wooden table. In a second, Spike took all that in. Good, no one else would interrupt. Except … he spied a red-faced Jet fumbling with a set of hand cuffs. But those weren't I.S.S.P. issued.

 

Something to ponder later. Right now Jeeters appeared to be having comprehension issues. The syndicate suit curled his lip as he regained his composure. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

 

_ 500,000 woolongs for a piece of shit syndicate flunky who couldn't keep his mug off the surveillance cameras? My lucky day!  _ Spike went for his gun. He never reached it. 

 

Jeeters pulled back his briefcase and swung it in a wide arc at Spike's head.

 

Anticipating the action, Spike abandoned the effort for his gun and leaned away from the strike. He watched the case glide harmlessly above him and smiled.  _ Oh, a lively one! You wanna fight? Ok, let's dance! _

 

Already off balance as he completed the arc, Jeeters failed to compensate when Spike drove a quick sweep of his leg into the man's shin. He cartwheeled into a table, launching a barrage of shattered wood at an alarmed Jet!

 

Jet hastily dodged the mess and snarled, “Hands off! This is my bounty!”

 

_ Bounty? _ Spike cocked his head and laughed. “Heh, I get it now! You're a cowboy?”

 

“Yeah. What of it? I don't need your help.”

 

Driving his hands into his pockets, Spike slid back into the door and slouched against the frame. Nothing barred the way now. “You think so? Let's take a bet, shall we?” He merely pulled out another cigarette and casually lit it.

 

The moment that the door was cleared, Jeeters scrambled to his feet and shot out into the street like a meteor in flight.

 

“Shit!” Jet yelled. “Why did you do that?” He barged through the door, already huffing.

 

_ Well now, he said he doesn't need my help. Eh, but I could really use the exercise. _ Shot glass still in his left hand, Spike dashed out the door into the cluttered streets and immediately turned down an alley. It wasn't the way Jeeters had gone, nor the burly pursuer. But Spike had indeed been to this town before. The name eluded him, as well as the name of the hit he'd been on a few years back—but he remembered the mad dash down the streets. He remembered the layout of the intersecting streets. That was the important part, where it all came together. 

 

Blood pumped through him, a sluggish warmth melting the ice. He felt something again in the thrill of the chase. Two weeks of alcohol induced oblivion drained away as he ricocheted off the crumbling walls, pushing past alarmed citizens.

 

_ Jeeters is nothing but a fool, probably a fresh initiate. But what else can be expected from a White Tiger loser. Only a moron hides in the slums without shedding syndicate finery. An expertly tailored suit like that doesn't come cheap! _ He skidded around a tight corner and crossed a rickety bridge. Three blocks to a bolt hole. Couldn't let Jeeter's reach it or the odds got infinitely worse. All he needed was the back-up of a squad of White Tiger goons. Maybe even one who would recognize him. That lumbering tank of a cowboy was going to owe him big time! Without Spike's help, by the time Jet got here, there is no doubt that Jeeters would vanish. Or he'd have enough back-up to pummel a small army. Not that those odds bothered Spike. There were ways to rig any house odds, especially on the streets.

 

Spike vaulted over a trash bin and rolled into the street just as his target flew by, one block from the bolt hole's scarcely concealed door. He lobbed the shot glass at the back of Jeeter's head. The thick glass popped as it shattered against the base of his skull. Jeeters toppled forward and slid across the asphalt on his chin. He left a scarlet skid mark behind.

 

Wasting no time, Spike closed the distance. Jeeters flipped over and thrashed blindly. Not hard to dodge wild punches. Spike watched for an opening and with a savage kick connected with Jeeter's bleeding chin. The man's teeth squealed with the impact. His body flopped backward, landing in a crumpled heap on the briefcase.

 

No one opened the door.

 

Spike meandered over and sat down on Jeeter's hip, lighting a fresh cigarette. He watched the drifting curls of smoke and passed the few minutes until the sound of panting filled the alley.

 

Jet came jogging down the street. His breathing punctuated by an odd wheeze. The moment he spied his quarry, he growled.

 

Spike waved at him with a sly grin. “Hey. Lookin' for your criminal?”

 

“I … could've … gotten him.”

 

“Mmm hmm. Sure. Now, about our bet—”

 

“I never accepted it!” Jet knelt down, bringing out the cuffs. “Besides, you killed him!”

 

“He's still breathing.” Spike refused to move. “I seem to remember a bet on identities. It seems I was right. So …?”

 

“So what? Move out of the way, would ya? This is my bounty to collect.”

 

“And he would have gotten away,” Spike tapped the briefcase with his heel, “with this. Now, I'm sure we can come up with some compensation for my legwork.”

 

Jet folded his arms across his chest, gradually catching his breath. “Yeah? What do you have in mind?”

 

Leaning back, Spike considered his options. Staying on Mars was unwise. It would only be a matter of time before the syndicate learned he wasn't a shredded corpse. And spending the night crammed in the pilot seat of his _Swordfish_ didn't sound like a pleasant experience. If this Jet was a bounty hunter, it stood to reason he had to have ship, a sizable one. He took a long draw off his cigarette before replying, “I could use a ride off this planet.”

 

“A ride? To where?”

 

He shrugged. “Honestly Jet, doesn't make a difference to me. Do me a favor and cart me and my asteroid racer off this rock and we'll call it even.”

 

Jet raised an eyebrow. “And if I don't?”

 

Spike pulled out his Jericho 941 and placed it firmly against Jeeter's temple. “Good luck collecting the reward with one dead half of bounty.”

 

That did it.

 

Jet backpedaled and held up his hands. “Hey, easy there!”

 

“We got a deal?” He massaged the trigger.

 

Jet closed his eyes. “I swear I'm going to regret this. Now, you caught my name. What's yours?”

 

He flipped the gun back into the concealed holster. “Name's Spike.” He watched for any sign of recognition. There was nothing more than simple defeat.

 

“Alright Spike. Let's get him back to the _Bebop_. Can't go until he gives up his partner. My reputation relies on not leaving until I get the full bounty.”

 

Spike stood and watched as Jet cuffed the unconscious man. He ran a hand through his hair. A shower would be nice, a good place to sleep. Even if it meant hanging with some ex-cop. There was no doubt about it, the man had been in the I.S.S.P. Every motion he made betrayed an old association. There was something more, an air of one burnt out. An air he recognized. Tough old codger. He'd have to be careful. But then again, who would care if he died? Nothing really mattered anymore. Of course, a stint in prison didn't sound like a pleasure cruise. Too many there would know who he was, who's lives he had once terminated for the honor of the Red Dragons. They wouldn't give a piss that he had deserted. They'd make him pay for every drop of blood he had spilled, tenfold.

 

Spike cracked his knuckles. “Great, the sooner we get him talking, the sooner we can go.”

 

Jet hefted the unconscious Jeeter over his shoulder and tossed Spike a curious glance. “You done this before or something?”

 

“Or something.” Spike shrugged and picked up the briefcase.

 


	3. Session 3

**SESSION 3**

 

Water ran in rivulets down Spike's back. Hot droplets pummeled his dark green hair, dragging it down over his face. He didn't care. The sensation was such a relief after the stint of dive hotel rooms, many of which lacked a private bathroom. He hadn't dared to use a common shower in those circumstances. Too much of a chance of someone recognizing him, even if he had used a false identity. As little as he feared death with nothing left to lose, he had no desire to meet his end buck-naked.

 

It wasn't like he had never roughed it before, certainly not. But on the inside he had vast resources to tap. Working for a syndicate a plan could get shredded through a jet engine in an instant. Thinking on one's feet was critical to survival. Many died before their full initiation. It should have been a testament to his skill-set that Mao had his eye out for Spike to succeed him.

 

That laudation soured in Spike's mouth. Earned or not, the favoritism had brought him nothing but trouble.

 

For the first time in weeks luck seemed to be in his favor, at least at the moment. The _Bebop_ turned out to be a refurbished fishing vessel with plenty of places to stretch out. Sure, the battered hull had seen better days, but one quick stroll through the decks and Spike admired Jet's enthusiasm for restoration. Patches of metal had been removed and replaced with meticulous welds fairly recently. The ship was clean and well organized. It had been easy enough to dock the _Swordfish_ on board. He doubted for even a moment that Jet would try and shoot him in the shower, even if he did suspect Spike's past. Too much of a mess to clean up. Too much of a chance of bullet holes in his _baby_. At least for a brief interim, he was safe.

 

Spike watched the clear water spiral down the drain. Too bad his life wasn't that easy to clean up. Just stand still and wait for the grime to dislodge and vanish. But there was no shedding what he had been, what he had done. The moment rumor carried on the wind that he was still alive, the syndicate would stop at nothing to bury him for good. No one would be there at his back. If  _ **she** _ could betray, than anyone would. How had he been so blind?

 

He leaned against the wall longing to feel her presence again, lost in the mystery that plagued his life. What was he going to do now? Gradually the hot water took on a chill. He turned the faucet off and grabbed a towel.

 

No sense in rushing things. They still had an accomplice to find before Jet would launch from Mars. The quicker they hunted down their target, the sooner Spike could breath without having to constantly glance over his shoulder wondering if there was a hit barreling down on him. A quick death would be the result if he was lucky. If they caught him alive, things would be considerably more visceral.

 

Dressed, Spike walked toward what he assumed to be the living room while still toweling his hair. Jet stormed by him, the briefcase in hand. Their shoulders collided on the way by. “Hey, pal,” Spike grumbled, “watch it, will yah?”

 

Jet turned and snapped, “All my tricks, and I barely got a word out of him!”

 

He blinked slowly. The interrogation had started hours ago, when Spike had fetched the _Swordfish_ from her hiding place. Jet had only spared a moment to open the flight hanger for him, hadn't even watched him maneuver in. “I can make him talk.”

 

“You? I've been doing bounty hunting for four years now. What do you think you can do that I can't, kid?”

 

“Look, old man.” Spike smirked. “I'm hardly a  **kid** , in case you haven't noticed. Give me a few hours with him. He'll talk.”

 

Jet waved a hand. “Fine. Have at him. I'll be working on getting this open in the workshop.” And with that, he left.

 

_ Big ol' windbag. Kid, heh. Doesn't he know I hate children?  _ Spike dropped down the stairs. 

 

Firmly tied to a chair in the middle of the living room, Jeeters scowled at him. A crusty scab covered his chin and an enormous goose egg at the base of his skull pushed his hair in different directions.

 

Spike finished drying his hair with casual indifference. He spied some poker chips and cards spread out on the table.  _ Oh, now this could be fun. _

 

Pocketing a chip he grabbed the back of Jeeters's chair and hauled him over to the side of the stair's open railing. He hooked a trash can with his foot and slid it in front of Jeeters. “What's that for—whoa!” Jeeter's question was cut short as the chair leaned forward over the top of the can.

 

From his perch on the metal stairs, Spike looped the towel through the chair's back and around the railing, holding Jeeters at an awkward angle. “To catch the mess.”

 

A bead of sweat plunked into the bottom of the can. “Mess?” Jeeters failed to quell the pitch change in his voice. “Wh … what mess?”

 

“You'll see.”  _ No doubt a small fry. Doubt he's seen any wet work … til now.  _ Spike balanced the poker chip on his right thumb and lined up the shot. “That is, unless you talk.”

 

“I ain't saying  _ **SHIT** _ !”

 

At that precise moment Spike had delivered a sharp flick to the chip sending it right smack into the center of the goose egg. He caught it on the rebound in his left hand and reset the shot. Jeeters didn't even get two breaths in before the next impact rattled his eyes. He moaned.

 

Flick after random flick, Spike kept up the game cursing quietly whenever he was slightly off target. “Thanks for the practice. Looks like I needed to work on accuracy after all.”

 

“Stop.” Jeeters emitted a juicy belch, his complexion an unhealthy green.

 

 _Flick._ “Sure, when you talk.” _Flick._

 

He gave a gurgling moan. “Please … I can't … they'll … ”

 

“Kill you? Probably, that's what happens when you fuck up.” _Flick._ “Shoot, that was a bit high.” _Flick._ “There we go.”

 

Jeeters flinched. A moment later he curled as much as the restraints would allow. A torrent of vomit spewed into the can. “oooooooooooooooooo ... ”

 

“Told yah you'd see.”  _ Flick. _ Spike began to hum a jazz tune.  _ This might take a while. But he'll crack. They always do. _

 

He was right. Spike's fingers began to cramp, but he was eventually proven right. Four times he watched Jeeter's spill his guts before he, well, spilled his guts. “Alright … alright …,” Jeeter's croaked, “stop and I'll tell you … just stop, please!”

 

Spike hung over the railing and ricocheted the chip off his victim's nose. “Good timing. I was about to find something that would make a bigger impact on you. You were saying?”

 

A few moments later, Spike walked into the workshop and slouched against the open door, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

 

“I'd prefer it if you didn't smoke in here.” Jet plucked it from him and extinguished it on the counter before dropping it in the trash. By the time he turned around Spike already had a fresh one lit as though nothing had happened. Jet scowled. “Ya give up?”

 

He blew out a smoke laden breath. “No point in going further.”

 

With a short laugh, Jet jabbed him with a finger. “You admit defeat!”

 

“Jeeters has a rendezvous with his accomplice Topaz, actually his senior, at the abandoned ziptrain station. They split up to make it harder for them to be followed. Course, he won't be showing up for that. Anyway, he's to bring the case with him to the southern entrance.”

 

“You got all that?” Jet's complexion paled. “How?”

 

Spike flipped the poker chip in the air. “Turns out he's not much of a gambling man. So what was he carrying?” He craned his neck to get a peek in the open case, the latches unscrewed from their housing. An odd assemblage of wires with medium sized two-pronged fork lay in the center of foam packing.

 

“I haven't a clue.” Jet scratched his bald head. “A machine. Possibly a weapon? Maybe?” He pointed to the end with an unusual plug. “Looks like it's only half of it. You think they split it up?”

 

“Yup.” Spike leaned back against the frame. “Certain they did. Topaz has the other half.”

 

“Why?”

 

“In case.”

 

“In case what?”

 

He pointed toward the living room. “In case someone got their hands on her patsy.”

 

Jet shot to his feet. “Topaz is a  _ woman _ ?”

 

Spike shrugged. “Well, I didn't exactly lift up her dress and look last we crossed paths. Kinda took her word for it. Anyway, we better get moving if you want to catch her off guard. She likes to prepare. And knowing her, I doubt she'll be alone.”

 

“Wait. Just who are you associated with?”

 

“No one.” Spike replied flatly.

 

“Then how do you know all that? Spike, get back here!”

 

But he was already meandering down the hall whistling a jazz tune.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**SESSION 4**

 

Spike settled into the pilot seat of his _Swordfish II_ and flicked on the receiver as he shoved the bulky key into the ignition. Flipping another switch, he jerked back as the com squealed and blared.

 

“ _You read me, kid?”_ Jet's voice crackled over the frequency.

 

He rolled his eyes at the annoying nickname.  ** “Loud ** and clear. We're synced.” 

 

“ _Can that antique even fly?”_

 

“No. I dragged it into your hanger when you weren't looking.” Spike smirked, his hand on the key. “Of course she can fly. She's been reliable for the past seven years and shows no signs of slowing down.” At least someone was reliable. He could always count on _Swordfish_ to have his back.

 

“ _Riiiight.”_

 

Spike let her speak for herself. He turned the ignition and her roar shook the _Bebop_ 's hanger. Bright blue exhaust washed over everything. “Besides, you're not one to talk. How old is that tugger you're in?”

 

“ _The_ Hammerhead _? She's in her prime.”_

 

He laughed. “Shows _your_ judge of character.”

 

“ _Hey!”_

 

“Met you there. Remember, south side. But land to the east, behind the rise. We don't want them seeing us coming. We don't exactly look like Jeeters.”

 

“ _Who says I'm taking orders from you? This is my bounty!”_

 

Spike pulled on his finger-less flight gloves and chuckled. “Fine, cowboy. You just blaze right in there and see how Topaz deals with an impostor. You won't get close enough to see a hair on her head.”

 

A long silence followed.  _ “Was that a bald joke?” _

 

He grinned and revved the engine. Releasing the brake, he opened her up and let her roll onto the deck. She screamed into the air and tucked her landing gear. The _Bebop_ shrank in the distance behind him. A small blip appeared in the jet-wash. The _Hammerhead_ lumbered in the wake. Spike maneuvered the _Swordfish_ in a wide arc and came behind the old tugger. Punching the throttle he blew past Jet in a tight corkscrew over her bow.

 

“ _Show off!”_

 

Spike chuckled into the com. “Don't ask for it, pal.”

 

“ _Is that a plasma cannon?”_

 

“Yup.”

 

“ _Does it work?”_

 

“Want a demonstration?” Spike reversed the thrusters and threw Jet a wry grin as the _Hammerhead_ creapt into view through the cockpit bubble.

 

Jet's eyes narrowed as the  _ Swordfish _ edged behind him.  _ “No you don't. I like this ship in one piece.” _

 

“You're learning.”

 

“ _What?”_

 

“To be careful what you ask for.” The _Swordfish_ shot ahead over the crater city.

 

The view from up here nothing short of spectacular. Every speck of grime and poverty faded into the lush landscape tucked inside the crater's protective bio-shield. From an airborne cockpit, the Martian crater was a gem paradise in a dusty red desert. The height erased the threat of the scheming thugs littering the floor of the valley like Titan roaches in a TJ diner. He soared out over the city arcing to the south-east.

 

No sense in tipping anyone off. He swept in low, letting the remnants of a skyscraper cover his final approach. There was enough commotion from a nearby mining operation to cover the sound of the engine. With luck, no one saw.

 

Spike ditched his flight gloves and plucked the key from the ignition. He leapt out of the cockpit just as the _Hammerhead_ touched down. While waiting, Spike checked to see if he had a full clip in his gun. Better to be prepared than full of holes. He tucked it back into the holster and leaned against the side of his craft as Jet climbed out.

 

“This is a fair way off, kid. You sure you know what you're doing?”

 

“Could ask you the same.” Spike threw his thumb toward the unseen ziptrain station. “What were  _ you _ planning on doing? Landing on her? The tonnage would crack her skull like a Ganymede rock lobster. But if that's how you like your bounties.” He shrugged. “Go for it.”

 

Crossing his arms over his chest, Jet barked. “You got a better idea?”

 

Spike delivered a sweeping kick to a pile of boards. Behind their scattered remains, a dark tunnel appeared. He shoved his hands in his pockets and slouched, looking at the passage. “Well, I  _ was _ thinking this would be a good approach. Or you can walk right in the front door and get shot. Your choice, pal. Either way, see you on the other side.”

 

“Wait a minute. Why don't we draw her out. You know _ , thus the expert in battle moves the enemy, and is not moved by him. _ Or, something like that.” 

 

Spike gave him a half-lidded stare. “Not my favorite Art of War quote.” He slipped into the tunnel, his voice echoed, “ _ In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity.  _ That makes things much more interesting.” 

 

Jet's footsteps carried from behind. “That's your plan? To basically … not have one?”

 

Spike nodded.

 

“That's crazy. Or at least a great way to get killed.”

 

Spike glanced over his shoulder and shrugged in the dim lights washing over them from the other end of the tunnel. “Pretty much. Plans go sideways faster than an asteroid collision. So only a dead fool relies on them.”

 

Jet made a rude noise and mumbled something. After a pause he asked, “Is this an access tunnel?”

 

“Maintenance. But who bothers with upkeep on an out-of-order station? Makes for an easy place to slip in and out without anyone being the wiser.”

 

“I didn't even know this was here.”

 

Spike grinned and paused in the last shadow of the tunnel. His hand reaching back for his gun as he whispered, “Which left you with the option of waltzing in the front door with a target on your head. How long you say you been doing this, Jet? Four years?” He held up a hand and listened.

 

It was quiet.

 

Too quiet. Not even a bird flitted in the rafters.

 

Jet edged closer and peered out into the half collapsed station's remains. Stiff shadows stretched across the floor, reaching toward the tunnel with fingers of light. “There's no one out there.”

 

Spike clung to the darkness. He swore he saw something shift across the room, second story. A trick of the light? This could all be a set up, a trap.

 

Or they were alone, merely chasing shadows.

 

“This is getting us no where. Come on.” Jet waved a hand and walked into the shaft of light.

 

The flash of a muzzle caught Spike's right eye. He shoved Jet in the back, knocking him to the ground. The bullet ricocheted off the wall in the space they had both occupied a moment before.

 

“So much for the element of surprise!” Spike only had a split-second to glare at Jet before dodging another bullet with a grunt. He rolled behind a pile of debris. Jet ducked behind a pillar. Both had pulled their guns. “Hey Jet, there's something more practical than that Art of War shit.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

He glanced up at a fraying tension wire. The wall where it was attached had been rent by an immense stress crack. All of this not far from where he had seen the betraying flash. Spike grinned devilishly and aimed for the rusted bracket in the crumbling wall. “Physics.”

 

_ **Bang** _ ! 

 

His bullet struck the loose corner of the plate. It audibly vibrated, followed by a sickening groan.

 

_**Pa-ting! Whooosh!** _

 


	5. Session 5

**SESSION 5**

 

The metal coil whipped back into the ruined corridor carrying the metal bracket like an improvised trebuchet. Spike hunkered down as the entire north second-story creaked before it cascaded into the lobby in a thunderous plume of choking dust. A series of alarmed cries accompanied the collapse. They quickly died, replaced by thready moans.

 

Spike led with his gun, peeking over his improvised concrete blind.

 

**Bang! Bang!**

 

He whipped back around as the bullets picked off bits of crumbling stone.  _ Well, that  _ **_ almost _ ** _ worked. _

 

From behind his pillar, Jet edged around and squeezed off a shot. He was rewarded with a pained scream. “We'll have to do this the hard way.”

 

Spike huffed. “Hard way? This is a walk through a casino for me with the odds heavily tipped in my favor.” He chanced a quick double tap. The first bullet smucked a partially collapsed column. The second thumped as it struck his intended target in the neck. Light glinted off the man's glasses as he staggered back and fell out of sight.

 

The shadows shifted. One … two … three … four, five … six … oh, seven. Two to seven odds in a rubble strewn terrain. He'd seen worse.

 

“Spike! Do you see her?” Jet tried to get a look, but a shot forced him back.

 

“Topaz isn't a moron.” He pulled off three shots. Two went wide, the last one struck a brace and cornered behind the rubble. Shrieks echoed in reply. He ducked back down as a shower of fire pummeled the block from a different angle, pebbles rained down on him. “She won't be here.”

 

Jet tried to bolt to a better angle behind an avalanche of stone. A curtain of bullets prevented him. He snarled and slid back down to one knee. “They've got us pinned down. We can make it back to the tunnel … Try a different way.”

 

Bracing himself, Spike narrowed his eyes. “I said  _ she's _ not here. That doesn't mean we're backing down.” 

 

“What are you—”

 

Jet didn't finish before Spike darted from the side of his blind in a flat out run toward the closest targets, two men hiding behind a slab of concrete. Vaulting over the twisted metal steps, he aimed a mid air shot at the one on the right. It sunk into the man's forehead who fell backward with a shocked yelp. Spike's left foot carried him straight into the chest of the second, knocking the pistol from his hand. The collision sent the man's head onto the edge of rough broken stone with a sound like a melon dropped from a rooftop. Bullets rained everywhere in the confused melee.

 

Over his left shoulder a gunman popped up. A second later his chest bloomed bright red with a solid  ** THWACK ** ! 

 

Spike spared a swift glance, Jet's smoking barrel vanished behind the pillar he had been trying to get to. A second shot rang out and pinged at a target overhead. Chips of stone rattled down. “Watch it, will ya!”

 

There was no time to chat. His rebuke cut short as a man charged him, swinging a piece of rebar. Spike dropped his gun and ducked out of the way, letting the heavy piece of metal swipe over his head. The path clear, he rammed his left fist up into the guy's chin with his full body behind the uppercut. The rebar hung suspended in the air for a moment, no longer held by the assailant.

 

“Thanks.” Spike snatched the make-shift weapon before it fell and swung it hard into the side of the man's rib cage with a satisfying crack. The air rushed out of his lungs as he crumpled to the ground.

 

_ That's only five. Where are the other two? _

 

A shot grazed his cheek from behind. Spike spun around to face a man charging him from the collapsed rubble. He barely had a chance to duck. Another shot wizzed over his head and connected in the center of the man's shoulder with a solid thud. He rolled to the side and toppled down on his face with a groan, a pool of blood collecting in the debris.

 

“Do you mind?” Spike snarled over his shoulder. But his words caught in his throat. Jet waved to him from behind the pillar … the last shooter drew a bead on him out of sight. Jet couldn't see the threat on his own life. No time to grab his gun.

 

Spike pulled the rebar up, wielding it like a pool cue, he struck a rock on the top of the debris pile about the size of a billiard ball. The metallic clink echoed in the lobby. The gunman turned his head, eyes wide. The rock cracked into his face a split second later. “Hah. Seven-ball in the corner pocket.”

 

Silence. At last Jet's footsteps filled the void. “Where did you learn how to do all that, kid?”

 

He smirked and turned to retrieve his gun from between the bloody bodies. “Been around a bit. And for the last time, I'm not a kid, pal.”

 

Bending over the seven-ball, Jet clicked his tongue. “This is easier if they are alive.”

 

“A matter of opinion.” He slipped the gun back home. “These are small fries. Not likely to have a bounty. We did them a favor by ending their pointless lives.”

 

“Pointless? Huh. Let me tell you—”

 

“ _Piangi. Piangi. Did Jeeters make the drop?”_ The tinny, female voice issued from beside the last victim.  _ “I saw some dust rising up from your direction. What's going on?” _

 

_ Topaz. _ He'd know that voice anywhere. Spike swept over the rest of the carnage. Those who were alive wouldn't be for long. The syndicate probably wouldn't even collect them. Except perhaps to make sure they were silenced.

 

Jet picked up the communication device. It illuminated his face. He smiled and waved at the video. “You must be Topaz.”

 

“ _Who the hell are you?”_ She snapped back venomously.

 

“We have a common friend. Jeeter's says hello.” Jet could have been chatting with an old partner with that tone of voice.

 

Spike cocked his head. What was he playing at? Topaz wasn't someone to be trifled with. Either Jet didn't know that, or he was tougher than Spike had calculated.

 

“ _Jeeter's who? I have no idea of what you're talking about,”_ she replied smoothly after a pause.

 

“Oh, that fancy dressed mule with the briefcase. Nice piece of machinery inside. Must be worth a lot to you.”

 

“ _So, it appears you intercepted him. Do I have that right?”_

 

Jet nodded. “Sure do. And if you want that jumble of wires back I'm sure we can work something out.”

 

Spike slouched against a pillar and frowned. If he thought that kind of bait would work on a shark like Topaz he truly was out of his league.  _ Well, he said it was his bounty, sooo.  _ Spike pulled out a cigarette and lit it as he idly examined the collateral damage. So much for this being a future swap point. One good quake and the rest of the roof would come down.

 

Topaz's laughter crackled over the link.  _ “Back? What did Jeeter's tell you? Clearly you found the rendezvous. But it appears he left you with the impression he was bringing it to me?” _

 

“For money, I assume.” Jet nodded. “You want it back?”

 

“ _Not really. That wasn't the point.”_

 

Spike narrowed his eyes.  _ Why else would he come here with the case? _

 

“ _I suppose it really doesn't make a difference after all. He did his job, even if slightly botching it. Good help is so difficult to train now a days.”_

 

That remark triggered a rude snort from Spike,  _ typical syndicate executive. _ Jet didn't even look up.

 

“Whatever, lady. The point is, I have your man and his little toy. You can have them back on my terms.”

 

“ _** Your ** terms? I think you fail to comprehend what's going on. I don't want it back. Wherever it is now is fine with me. And Jeeters? Well, he is of no use anymore with his face all over the net. No use except as a distraction.” _

 

_ Distraction? _ Spike pushed up from the wall he'd been leaning against.  _ Wait a minute, what did this thing do? _

 

“ _Wherever it is will serve as a message of my devastation. So be it. Three … two … one.”_

 

Wherever it was? It was on … “The _Bebop_!” Jet yelled the precise moment Spike tore for the tunnel!

 


	6. Session 6

**SESSION 6**

 

The _Swordfish_ sliced through the air as Spike punched the throttle full out. She shuddered in complaint of the shortlisted pre-flight. A full one would have taken up time he didn't have.

 

“What the hell does that thing do?” He pondered as Topaz's warning echoed in his mind. “What did the psycho bitch mean by devastation?”

 

The blue expanse of the lake where the _Bebop_ was currently docked winked into view. Good. Now all he had to do was reach it.

 

A shrill pitch shattered the air. He hunched over the controls, fighting the urge to cover his ears against the auditory assault. “Augh! What the hell?”

 

When he forced himself to look up again the horizon began to shimmy. Clouds of red dust rose into the air.

 

“ _Spike! Where are you?”_

 

He winced, trying to concentrate on flying despite against the jumping landscape. “Halfway to the _Bebop_.”

 

“ _Hurry, your ship is faster than mine! I'm right behind you. Everything I have is in that ship! Do what you have to do, get that damn device out of her!”_

 

“What the hell do you think I'm trying to do?” He snapped through clenched teeth. “Can it, Jet! And let me fly!”

 

The waves of sound jostled the instrument readings, throwing the analog needles against the casings.  _ Shit! That little wad of wires is doing all this?How could I have missed that? Off my Goddamn game.  _

 

He hissed as he rolled around another out-of-control craft in his way. A near miss. There was no time. He plunged down toward the bubbling lake. The deck of the Bebop rocked and surged like it was sitting in a gigantic boiling pot of water. Ripples circled out from the haul of the ship.

 

Without any guidance this was going to be an eye-shot into an erratic moving target. He narrowed his eyes and concentrated, trying to find some kind of pattern that did not exist. Closer and closer, he was running out of time.

 

“Have to wing it!”

 

Landing gear down, he glimpsed a small window. He tried to match the pitch of the deck and came down with a jarring smack! The wheels let off plumes of smoke into the hanger as he skidded her to a stop. Not his best landing.

 

He squeezed out of the gap of the opening cockpit and scrambled across the deck. The sheet metal shivered and shrieked as he plunged down the corridors. The sound waves pounded against his eardrums like relentless mallets. He rammed his hands against his ears. The closer he got to the workshop the more punishing it grew.

 

“Shit!”

 

Forcing himself around the corner into the room he found the case on the floor. The twin prongs of the metal fork vibrated the machine itself, briefcase and all, along a path. Stooping down, he snatched it and nearly dropped it. The bone-rattling gyrations threatened to shatter his arms.

 

There was no choice! He gritted his teeth and hauled it in a staggering gait down the corridor.

 

“Is this what a martini feels like?” He collided with the wall, closing his eyes against the waves still rocking the ship. His jaw clacked with each rapid cycle of the machine.

 

Which way was the flight deck? He cracked open his eyes, nothing remained stationary. The world reduced itself to fluid mechanics. And his body now acted as a useless buffer between the insidious device and the ship. This ship, his ticket off of this rock! Nothing was going to compromise that if he could help that!

 

With a snarl, he picked a direction and hoped he was right. He was a billiard ball bouncing off the sides of the violently pitching ship. The device threatened to shake itself from his aching fingers, so numbed from the assault they hurt!

 

A shaft of light drew him through the open hanger door, he stumbled past the _Swordfish_ and the _Hammerhead_. The edge of the ship's deck rose and fell at the edge of his vision. Frothy water splashed up and down. The _Bebop_ 's hull groaned.

 

Spike's grip on the device wasn't enough to disrupt the destruction. The _Bebop_ was going to break up if he didn't get it off the deck.

 

With a desperate cry, he heaved it back to one side and threw it into the air with all his strength. The momentum sent him plowing into the deck. The briefcase and its device tumbled with a splash into the water and sunk.

 

Lying on the deck, Spike's body continued to mimic the odd pulse of the machine he no longer held. Not surprising, the air itself still hummed with the oppressive wave. He staggered to his feet. The deck continued to pitch. The water roiled in the lake basin pushing the ship in a violent maelstrom. Each pulse shoving the bow higher and higher.

 

Spike rode it, trying to creep back to the door, but the angle of the dipping bow dragged him relentlessly toward the frothy waves. With each cock-screwed pulse the _Bebop_ edged closer to capsizing. While Spike could swim, he doubted that human flesh would last long pounded by the machine's assault.

 

The deck lifted up beyond forty-five degrees and slammed back down. Water foamed over the deck. Spike's shoes lost all traction as gravity took over.

 

“Shiiiiit!” He clawed at the decking. A moment later the bucking deck launched him into the air and caught him roughly, inches from ramming into the bay doors. If he could get to the _Swordfish_ …

 

But his hopes dwindled. Once more gravity raked him along the fore-deck. A wave crashed down and seized him. His fingertips skidded along without purchase. 

 

He lost contact with the _Bebop_. The bubbling water counteracted any buoyancy his lanky body may have had. Floundering, he tried to catch a breath before the surface sealed the air from him. His fingers reached for something, anything! Underwater the crushing pulse intensified, transferring directly into his flesh. His eardrums nearly shattered.

 

A roar interrupted the rhythm. Spike's lungs screamed as he fought to hold his breath. The punishing pulse squeezed his chest like a sporadic vice.

 

Something firm rammed up underneath. The rough deck of the _Bebop_ nudged against him. The sudden current forced him mercilessly into the firm surface with arms and legs splayed. Water washed away as the decking broke the surface.

 

Spike coughed and spat out the lake before gasping in a breath. The air never tasted so good. His hand tapped against his pocket. A sodden cigarette box squelched inside. He scowled at the loss.

 

But the cruel ride wasn't over. A wave slammed into the bow and kicked _Bebop_ at an odd angle. With nothing to hang onto, Spike launched into the air. Gravity tumbled his flailing body across the deck.

 

Grimly, he realized the source of the roaring. The _Bebop_ 's engines. Jet was taking off. The bow struggled to break free of the turbulent waves. Each buck of the limping ship sent Spike jostling into another rough collision. On the slick deck there was nothing to grab onto.

 

A monster of a wave overshadowed the bow.

 

Spike gulped and took a deep breath. His fingers attempted a futile grip. Maybe a few seconds of considering where to throw the device might have been a better idea than his hasty dash.

 

Too late for that now.

 

 _Bebop_ 's nose angled back up. She bucked on the rough water, straining as she careened to break free of the grasping waters. The monstrous wave still threatened her path.

 

He gritted his teeth.  _ This is nothing like what I imagined for today when I stared through the bottom of a whiskey glass! Oh, crap … This … is gonna hurt. _

 

Flat as possible, he clung for dear life. _Bebop_ 's bow smacked the wave and punched through it. Spike lost his grip. The force of the impact ripped him from the deck and flung him on a direct path with the hanger door.

 

“Ahhhh!”  _ CLUNK! _

 

Everything went dark and blessedly silent.

 


	7. Session 7

**SESSION 7**

 

_Distant voices droned on. Flashes of explosions danced in the darkness. Fingers braced on triggers. Staring down the barrel of a gun. A bead of sweat in anticipation. Everything on the line. Just one squeeze to test the limit …_

 

A dull ache banished the lucid images. Spike dismally became aware of every fiber of his body. He seemed to be lying on his left side … maybe? He cracked open his eyelids to the flickering of a broadcast on a screen sitting on a table. His head rested on something nauseatingly yellow.

 

Where the hell was he now? This was hardly the first time he'd woken up … somewhere … wondering what the hell had happened.

 

A metallic click caught his attention. He wasn't alone. His gaze drifted toward the sound … his Jericho 941 lay in pieces on the low table. A man with a cybernetic arm pulled an oiled towel through the barrel. Jet … the _Bebop_. Right. This must be the living room with that tacky furniture.

 

He closed his eyes and sighed.

 

“Yo. You're tougher than you look, kid.”

 

He opened his eyes and tried to scowl, but lacked the energy to pull it off.

 

“You alright?” Jet asked in the long silence.

 

Experimentally, Spike shifted each limb. Though it hurt, nothing throbbed with a sharp intensity. “Bruised,” he muttered, “nothing broken.”

 

“Good. You'll live.”

 

Spike shut his eyes with a grunt.  _ That's a matter of opinion. _ He listened as Jet picked up each part of the gun, cleaned it, and set it back on the table. How long had he been out? His clothing was damp, but not drenched. Clearly it had been a few hours at the least.

 

A splash of liquid in a glass forced his eyes back open. Jet pushed a glass of whiskey to the edge of the table. “Here. Sit up and drink this. You took quite a tumble out there.”

 

Sluggishly, he inched his arm across the chasm and took the warm glass from the table. He couldn't quite banish the trembling. Exhaustion. An engine running on fumes. He didn't bother to sit up. Rolling his head forward, he hung off the edge of the couch and took a stiff gulp. The amber alcohol scalded his throat. Warmth. Idly, he watched the fluid slosh back into the bottom of the glass. After another long nap he'd need a good routine to work out the kinks. He had to get moving again, loosen back up, push through the bruises. Pushing … always pushing.

 

“Jet?”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“When I said I wanted a ride off Mars, you know I wasn't referring to a mechanical bull ride, right?”

 

Jet kept his gaze locked on the firing mechanism he was reassembling, he blanched. “Well, yeah. Of course. I didn't do that on purpose.”

 

“Riiight.” Spike sighed and downed the second half of the whiskey. He let his arm drape over the edge, hovering the glass just above the floor. Even in the dim light he could see the purplish discoloring of his forearm. It wasn't too bad, but the color change was obvious against his normally pale complexion. “Where are we?”

 

“In a low Mar's orbit. Not risking her again to … whatever that was.” Jet cleared his throat and nodded to the display. “Typical news. They're calling it a _ natural _ quake. Huh, a quake with five epicenters? That's a new one.”

 

Spike's gaze drifted to the flickering images of the crater city. A satellite view revealed four immense rubble zones, the fifth was what used to be the lake where the Bebop had docked. Now all that remained was a red crater in the midst of the city. The announcers rambled on about the disaster without saying much of anything at all. “Cover up.” Spike clicked his tongue. “Don't want to cause a panic. Imagine the clogged roadways if they learned a White Tiger bitch had her paws on a sonic quake generator. Well, at least  _ we _ now know what that 'stolen hush hush technology' was.”

 

“Yah.” Jet picked up a few more pieces of the gun and turned them around in his hands. “You're going to need this.”

 

He scowled. “Still determined to collar Topaz?”

 

Ignoring him, Jet continued, “They canceled the bounty on Jeeters. Good thing too. He's not much good with his skull cracked open.”

 

Spike's eyebrow rose. He moved his head enough to see the railing splattered the dried blood. And he'd thought  _ he  _ had a rough ride. At least he hadn't still been tied to a chair!

 

For the first time Jet eyed Spike. “What was in the trashcan that's now smeared all over my floor?”

 

He shrugged and smirked. “He spilled his guts. I meant to throw that out. Forgot.”

 

Jet glowered.

 

“He's a dead end. So, the bounties off. No sense in hanging around this rock.”

 

“That machine nearly sunk my ship, Spike. That's not something I intend to leave unsettled. She's going to pay for this.”

 

“Heh. Good luck. Topaz doesn't pay for anything. Ask the last guy who tried to go dutch with her.”

 

He opened his mouth to reply when the screen flashed and an I.S.S.P. uniformed man appeared.  _ “Hey Jet. Was hoping to catch you in.” _

 

“What do you have, Bob?”

 

Spike ran his finger along the edge of the whiskey glass. He should have put money he didn't have on that bet. I.S.S.P., Jet reeked of it. So, maybe his instincts weren't compromised, after all.

 

“ _You anywhere near Mars? Something big is going down. It's not official yet, but they're about to announce a huge reward for whoever leveled the city of Baltisk. Intelligence caught a whisper of a threat, a second attack. Something about Tharsis?”_

 

_ Tharsis? _ Spike half-closed his eyes.  _ Not that shithole! Not now, dammit. _

 

“Yeah. I'm in orbit right now. Had a good view of the action.” Jet rubbed his chin. “Reward huh? How much and what are the conditions?”

 

“ _Bounty is five-million wooglongs for whoever is behind this. Alive. There is a rumor of half if brought in dead. Think it's because no one knows who did it and what they want. Higher ups want this done fast and quiet. Seems there's a piece of stolen government tech behind this. They want it buried.”_

 

“No kidding.” Jet nodded and glanced at Spike, out of range of the communications camera. “I have an idea what's going on. Thanks for the tip, Bob.”

 

“ _Anytime, Black Dog. Good hunting.”_ The screen vanished and once more the news resumed the series of half truths. 

 

“Fortune smiles on us.” Jet reset the barrel on the Jericho with a grin.

 

“And karma is a sharp toothed bitch.” Spike muttered from the couch. “I'm tellin' ya pal, let's get out of here. Tharsis isn't that great of a city. Let Topaz level it. Mars will be better for it.”

 

“No way. The Black Dog never gives up. Besides, I told you, I'm not leaving Mars without my bounty.”

 

Spike rolled over onto his right side with a groan, facing the back of the couch. “Let me know how that goes for you.”

 

“No need. You can see for yourself.” The click of the fully assembled gun accompanied his laugh. “There we go. Back in working order.”

 

“No—I won't. I'm not leaving this couch until we're in hyperspace on our way out of here.”

 

“You owe me a bounty head, Spike.”

 

He paused, his teeth grinding. “I don't owe you shit! Not after this!” He held up an arm, the shirt sleeve flopped down revealing bruises, the color coordinated with the indigo blue of his suit. Now that he thought about it, where the hell was his jacket? And his tie?

 

The laden silence stretched overlong. “I … uhh … you saved my _Bebop_. I know. If you hadn't gotten to her in time … ”

 

“She would be in pieces resting in the dry lake bed, Jet.” Spike snapped, shutting his eyes. “You're  _ damn _ welcome.”

 

“I'll repay you … ”

 

“You can start by keeping your promise.”

 

Jet didn't answer. Spike's stomach did the talking. It growled loud enough to combat the droning of the broadcast. He curled into the new discomfort. When was the last time he'd had a decent meal? He couldn't even remember … just the dive bars. Glass after mindless glass drowning his nerves.

 

“Fine, Jet. If you insist on dragging me back to Tharsis, when we get there we do things  _ my _ way. You got that?” His stomach twisted again, hard enough he winced. His voice lost its edge. “First, how about something to eat?”

 

He heard Jet set his gun on the table followed by the footsteps out of the room. Alone, Spike opened his eyes and swallowed hard. A shiver, not born of cold, tore through him.

 

Karma  _ really was _ a sharp toothed bitch. And he still carried the scars that proved it.

 


	8. Session 8

**SESSION 8**

 

“Hey Spike, wake up. Sorry it took a while.”

 

Jarred from a deep sleep, Spike awoke with a jerk. He quickly regretted it as he twisted toward the voice in a failed attempt of a defense posture. Everything had stiffened while he slept, seizing like an un-oiled machine. But his ravenous hunger rapidly overcame the ache. A heaping plate hovered over him. Dragging himself upright he took it from Jet and dug the chop sticks into something that looked like a stir fry. It didn't make a difference to him what was in it. Food at this point was food. Anything would do, even those cheap styrofoam cups with the plastic noodles inside. And this was infinitely better.

 

Jet chuckled, sitting down to dig into his own plate. “Slow down, you'll choke.”

 

The only answer was the slurp of a noodle that had tried to escape. He barely stopped to savor the flavor. Before he knew it he belched, staring at the empty plate. He set it on the table and flexed his hands listening to the joints crackling complaint.

 

“How far out are we?”

 

Jet swallowed a mouthful before replying, “About an hour to Tharsis. Why?”

 

Spike levered himself up and shuffled across the floor. It was as much as his bruised muscles would permit at the moment.

 

“Hey, where you going?”

 

“To warm up for this shitstorm you insist on stirring into a frenzy.” He dragged his jacket and his thin black tie off the back of the chair and limped through the door. He didn't want anyone to witness this. These first few minutes were probably going to be embarrassing. Well, not  _ probably _ . They  _ would _ be. There was nothing fluid about limbs stiff as a board. And everyone knew how boards shattered when struck. Shattering hurt. Something to be avoided.

 

He found the darkened bridge to his liking. With the ship on autopilot there was no need for anyone in the seat. There was plenty of room here. And there were convenient horizon plain circles on the windowpanes offering him a visual target. Spike shuffled to the center of the empty space rubbing his shoulder.

 

“Push through this. You know how. It hurts, but there is no time to heal.”

 

He commenced a series of slow stretches just starting to wake stiffened muscles with a gentle flow. Limbs responded with mechanical jerks. Not at all what he wanted. Spike concentrated on his breathing. In and out, moving his hands in time with each aspiration.

 

_Center. Find the center._

 

… _The vision of a barrage of gunfire flared in his mind. He heard the reports of their shots. The men shouting. Felt the impact as a few bullets found home in his flesh ..._

 

His center wobbled in mid-balance. His knee buckled sending him hard to the floor. He shut his eyes tight, panting against the memories. A clear mind. He needed a goddamn clear mind or this was never going to work.

 

Rising to his feet, he once more attempted a balance stretch. This had to come first before the limbs could move, supple and fluid. Clear … crystal … nothing before him. Painstakingly slow, he worked through the postures feeling the heat rise in his limbs. The stiffness of the bruising faded as he broke through the wall of pain. The damage was still there. The amount he let it limit him receded.

 

He dared to throw a series of punches gaining momentum and force. His body complained. He ignored the protest. Laid out on the floor like an invalid was no way to be.

 

…  _ bandages. Stitches where shards of metal had been removed from lacerated flesh. The snickering of his subordinates every time they visited asking when he wouldn't be a mummy any more! … _

 

Far from the wall of windows, Spike kicked toward a point in the center of a pane, fighting to match his foot to the angle of the horizon plain marker. Each time he compensated a fraction, edging closer to the goal. Beads of sweat flew into the air with every tightening motion. His wild strikes grew more controlled. Building into a fluid routine of fury laden blows at unseen targets.

 

Unseen to all … but Spike. He gritted his teeth and drove the palm of his hand in a straight swift strike.

 

… _a woman's laughter drifting down from the floor above. Her cruel eyes gleaming in the darkness. Baring down on him. Laughing and closing the distance. …_

 

He spun and lashed out at the shadow. Taunted by her mockery.

 

… “ _Foolish Dragon! Fell right into the Tiger's trap. Come now, let's play!” A blinding blow to the side of his head …_

 

Spike reeled backward from the memory. His balance thrown off, he pinwheeled to find it again, wobbling like a poorly carved spinning top. His breathing came in harsh gasps. Not again. He wouldn't let that bitch hand him his ass again.

 

…  _ **Topaz!** …  _

 

Shutting his eyes he concentrated on what he felt. He launched into a crazed series of kicks and flips feeling his body release the tension. Limber and supple he sprung into a hard lunge leading with his fist. He opened his eyes. Jet stood a fraction of an inch in front of him, his hands and eyes wide.

 

Spike panted for a few breaths before dropping his guard. He mopped the sweat from his brow and wandered to the window. Reaching into his jacket he pulled out a crumpled cigarette and lit it without looking. The damp tobacco smoldered terribly. His eyes stared at the distant, vapor wrapped crater growing before them like a cancer on the surface of Mars.

 

Tharsis.

 

He leaned against the window and stared broodingly into the distance waiting to glimpse the grim structures he knew to be there. Places he wasn't ready to see again.

 

Jet came up beside him. “Some serious shit you got there. Remind me never to piss you off. Where did you learn that?”

 

Spike retained the stony silence.

 

After a long pause, Jet shifted forward, staring hard at his face. So hard that even Spike's dark mood failed to evade the pull. The moment he looked up, Jet remarked, “Is it just the light, or are your eyes two different shades of brown?”

 

Spike glowered. “It's rude to stare.”

 

“Hey, I just noticed.”

 

He reached out and flicked a fingernail against Jet's mechanical arm. It plinked. “Hey, your arms don't match. What's with that?”

 

Jet backed up and rubbed where he nail had struck him. “There was no call for that.”

 

He threw him a surly glare. “None of your damn business. Just like  _ that _ isn't mine. So stay out of it!”

 

Huffing a breath, Jet waved toward the growing crater. “Fine, let's get back to what  _ is _ our business then. What is your plan for when we get there?”

 

Spike stood in sullen silence before he blinked. Tension drained from his frame. He lifted one shoulder dismissively.

 

“Hey, you said you were calling the shots, buddy. I need to know where we land. So, how about sharing a little information with me since you know so much.”

 

There was no guesswork on where she would be. Drawing in a breath, he plucked the cigarette from his lips and let out the coil of smoke. “North end of the city. She'll be in an abandoned steel warehouse by the water tower. An old overseer's office on the fourth floor. She'll have company on the ground level. Rear guard. But no escort.”

 

Jet blinked. “That's specific. You sure about that?”

 

“Yup.” He replaced the crumpled cigarette and massaged his hand left. “Whatever you do, don't touch the door handle.”

 


	9. Session 9

**SESSION 9**

 

The evening wind swirled loose papers in the alley's only flickering lamp. A stray cat arched its back and issued a dire warning as two shadows broke the shaft of dim light.

 

With his head down, Spike ambled toward the back door of the warehouse with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders slumped. He counted each determined beat of his heart. Out here in the open he resigned himself to the gamble. The only chance he had of not being glimpsed by a syndicate informant lay in how damned difficult it had been for him to find the White Tiger's last bolt hole in Tharsis, Spike's last task before his dramatic exit from the Red Dragons two weeks ago. He smirked to himself at the thought that he should have told someone about it before he left. But, recent activities severed any sense of loyalty he'd had. The White Tiger's attempted infiltration of Tharsis city was the syndicate's problem now, not his.

 

Or, so he'd thought. Beside him, Jet craned his neck as he searched the grime frosted windows for motion. His fingers gripped the hilt of a Walther P99 at the ready.

 

“Spike,” Jet hissed, “you just gonna walk right in there?”

 

He barely broke stride. “Yep. No point in sneaking in when they already know we're here.”

 

“All the more reason not to!”

 

Bending down, Spike picked up a rock and tossed it in his hand a few times, gauging the weight as he peered at the facade of the building. “Look, if you want to catch this bitch, this is how you do it.” A faint shadow shifted behind one the panes. Spike grinned mischievously and shut one eye before hefting the rock into the air.

 

It crashed into the filmy window and revealed six men gathered with gun-muzzles at the ready. Spike waved at them. “Right. Jet, keep 'em busy.”

 

Jet started for a second, “What?” It was all the time he had before a bullet struck the ground beside him followed by a series of others. He rolled behind a metal barrel and cursed Spike before returning fire.

 

Spike couldn't help but hear the rebuke as he dashed along the side of the building, his eyes focused on a half broken pane of glass. He accelerated and crashed through shoulders first, rolling onto the floor. Amidst the gunfire and confusion, none of the silhouettes followed him. The ruse had worked. Too bad it hadn't occurred to him years ago when he'd been sent to burn out the Tiger's other house. Of course, he'd also been cocky enough to go alone. No one to play the patsy and draw the fire. Not like this time.

 

Slinking up the dark stairwell, he headed for the fourth story keeping his steps as quiet as possible. There was no sound either up or down. A curtain of yellowed light spread out on the fourth story landing.

 

For a moment his hand reached back for his gun. He hesitated. The corner of his eye caught an old broom. He unscrewed the head and spun the handle like a bo staff. The balance was slightly off, but it would do.

 

Drawing back, he rammed into the door with his foot, avoiding the doorknob as he destroyed the entire frame. A blue spark flared into the air as the wired trap disconnected. In a tumbling roll he came up, bo in a horizontal swing.

 

** THUCK! ** A small throwing knife embedded itself into the wood, inches from his fingers.

 

Reclining in the desk chair, Topaz flashed her teeth beneath a cascade of wavey raven hair. “Ooooo look who it is,” she cooed, “didn't I kill you years ago, little Dragon?”

 

“You tried with an epic failure.” Spike smiled plucking the blade from the staff. The experience much better than it had been pulling the blade from his leg the first time they'd met. “Rather like me. Except in my case, you weren't my target.”

 

“Awww. But I so enjoyed sharpening my claws in you.” She flexed her fingers. “For once I had a bit of a challenge. And now, I get it again after dealing with nothing but common grade syndicate mince-meat I get served a prime grade cut. This is going to be juicy fun.”

 

He ignored her taunt, focusing on her eyes, watching for the tell. “Let's make this simple. Where did you put the sonic relays?”

 

“The what?” She rolled her shoulder with coy expression. Her hand lifted and he spotted the flash of a green light. The bloody remote.

 

“I know what you're up to.”

 

Her grin intensified. “All I have to do is press this button and the entire Red Dragon empire will be reduced to grains of sand blowing in the wind. The Van are in the tower, my eyes have told me as much. Go ahead take one more step and I bury everything you ever cared about.”

 

Spike gave a short bark of a laugh and took two steps forward. “Go ahead.”  _ Bury them all …  _ he paused for a moment.  _ Mao. What if Mao was in there? Shit … _

 

Topaz leaned forward, her finger hovering over the button. “What was that? Where did your bravado go? Come on, you great blustering windbag. I shredded you once. I will do it again.”

 

_ Wait for it … patience, Spike.  _ He held back, tossing the blade in his hand with a casual flick. Her eyes. In the golden brown iris's he glimpsed her starvation for a fight. All he had to do was bid his time. 

 

She set the remote down, and crawled forward onto the desk. “You really don't learn, do you.” She rolled her fingers in a slow grip over the edge.

 

Spike braced himself internally, slouching back. “You know what they say about tigers … ”

 

Topaz cocked her head. “What?”

 

“They can't change their stripes,” he laughed.

 

She chose that moment to lunge forward. Holding the blade, Spike punched at her in a lightning strike. The sharp metal raked along her arm as he danced out of the way, completing the spin with a sweep of the staff at her feet. She reeled back and landed on her ass.

 

He flashed a wry grin. “But a dragon does better. We can shed our skin!”

 

Topaz growled and leapt forward, two savage short blades in her hands. “You think you're funny, don't you.”

 

With a windmill flip of the staff, Spike deflected her strikes before sticking his face to the side of the makeshift weapon. “No. I know I am.”

 

She responded exactly as he hoped she would, lashing out. Every strike had its telltale signal giving him time to draw her in, tighter and tighter. Short blade or not, he was determined she would not get through his guard this time.

 

“What?” He blocked her, smashing her hand in the process. One blade spun to clang across the floor.“You don't think I'm funny?”

 

She cursed and shook her hand in the air. “I think you're an asinine joke!”

 

“Oh good.” He leaned into her and was rewarded with her scramble backward. “The practice is paying off!” He ducked down and smacked her legs out from under her with the staff.

 

Enraged, Topaz rolled away from the assault and came tearing back at him with a wild series of swings. This time Spike was ready for the barrage of kicks and punches. He deflected each one as she threw it. Her openings grew sloppy and wide as her ire rose. This time, she hadn't been in the power position. Spike had made sure of it. Even if she knew he was coming—this time he knew she was there. And he used her goading tongue against her.

 

“Damn, how did you manage to beat me before?” he laughed. “Seriously. Who took your claws?”

 

She snarled and reached back preparing to swipe. “I'll show you claws!”

 

And there it was! He dropped the staff and grabbed her wrist as it came in, neatly sweeping to the side and redirecting her into a flip. He slammed her down with a bone-shattering crack! When she looked up from the floor it was up the muzzle of his gun.

 

She gave him a venomous glare. “I should have stayed around to make sure you were buried after the explosion! Do it, pull the trigger!” She reached out for the end of his gun.

 

Spike stood stock still.  _ Alive. She's worth more alive. _

 

Topaz clawed at his gun and screamed. “To think, I'll be done in by a Red Dragon!”

 

“No! You won't!” Before he even knew it, in a surge of rage, his finger pumped the trigger. His shot plunged straight into the side of her neck. She crumpled to the floor into a pool of scarlet.

 

The cock of a gun behind him triggered the reflex. He spun and drew a bead.

 

It wasn't one of Topaz's flunkies. His Jericho pointed directly at a baleful Jet.

 

_Shit!_

 


	10. Session 10

**SESSION 10**

 

“I should have known!” Jet barked, his gun aimed right for Spike's heart. “Of course you knew about this. Goddamned syndicate prick!”

 

Spike froze, his gun on a kill shot. Not the heart. The neck was a deadlier target this close. Every breath was a harsh rasp through his nose. His finger massaged the trigger of his Jericho. Through clenched teeth he snarled, “I am dead!”

 

“You lied to me!” Jet took a step forward leading with the gun. “Thought you were another bounty hunter, a damned good one too!”

 

In a low growl Spike punched each word, fighting not to pull the trigger. “I—am—a—dead—man!”

 

The intense glare locked Jet in his steps. Slowly, Jet lowered his Walther, numb shock washing over his face.

 

Spike held the stance for half a minute longer before his hand lowered to his side. His shoulders slumped forward as he hung his head in the hollow victory.

 

Neither said a word. Slowly Jet made his way around the puddle of blood and picked up the remote from the desk. “This little thing was the cause of all this?”

 

Trading his gun for the lighter in his pocket, Spike lit a cigarette and tapped his shoe against Topaz just to be sure. She didn't move. Well, he didn't want to repeat **her** mistake. Where had this streak of luck come from? She'd mopped the floor with him years ago.

 

Jet held up a map. “Hey, looks like she marked out the locations. These should be easy to recover now. Maybe they'll give us the full five-million even though you blew out her neck.”

 

Spike ambled to the desk and peered over Jet's shoulder. _Damn. Should've let her push the button._ He eyed the green light, his fingers itching to reach out. One touch and if those devices were in the right place the entire foundation of the Red Dragon Syndicate would be cut down in one blow. Buried in the rubble of their own building as the ground turned to sand beneath.

 

 _Vicious would do it._ He closed his eyes and shuddered. _No!_ _I'm not like him! I couldn't stomach that shit, that's why I left._

 

“Spike, hey, you still with me?”

 

He opened his eyes. Jet hovered there waving a hand inches from his face. Spike grabbed it and shoved him aside. He threw Topaz's body over his shoulder. “Come on. Let's blow this joint.”

 

“We still have to retrieve the relays.”

 

He called over his shoulder. “You have a map. See you on the _Bebop_.”

 

* * * * *

 

“ _Howdy there, pardners! All 300,000 bounty hunters in the system, how y'all doin'?”_ Punch yelled over the broadcast show.

 

On the bridge, Spike worked through a routine only partially listening to the background noise as he delivered a roundhouse into the air. Through the windows the hyperspace stars raced by in streaming stripes. Jet had mumbled something about where they were headed hours ago. Spike didn't give a shit. Anywhere but Mars. Granted, leaving only lessened the chances that the syndicate would hear he was still alive. They may be based in Tharsis, but that hardly meant their reach didn't extend throughout the system. All he could do was stay alert and try to make it harder for them. It was still only a gamble of time before they found him.

 

For the moment, the odds seemed in his favor. That was never truly a blessing, as he'd seen it.

 

“ … _a crisis was averted on Mars when Jet Black of the_ Bebop _nabbed one Topaz. A mean little White Tiger minx with a plan to extort Tharsis.”_

 

“ _Oh my, Punch! Thank the stars for this handsome cowboy! Isn't he dreamy?”_ Judy cooed.

 

“Like I had nothin' to do with it.” Spike grumbled between punches.

 

“What was that, partner?” Jet glanced up from the console.

 

“Nothing.” He shoved his hands in his sweatpant pockets and padded over to the screen staring idly at the pair.

 

“ _Too bad for Jet though, only half the reward since there was a big ol' hole in her neck. Remember cowfolks, a bounty is worth more alive than dead!”_

 

Spike snorted, “Yeah, but a cooperative corpse is easier to carry in.”

 

Jet leaned on the console toward Spike with a crooked grin. “Say, where you headed now?”

 

“Hadn't really thought about it.” He shrugged. “Don't really care.”

 

Tossing a handheld com into the air, Jet watched as Spike caught it and blinked at the screen.

 

“You're joking, right?”

 

“You'd be good at it.” Jet grinned. “Besides, it gets kinda lonely out here. I could use a partner. So … what d'ya say? Partners?”

 

Spike eyed him sideways. “And the second that the I.S.S.P. puts a price on my head you'll know what bunk to find me in.”

 

“You're supposed to be dead, right? So why would they?”

 

“Don't they do a background check or something with this application for a license?”

 

“You have a license to fly your _Swordfish_ , right?”

 

Spike glanced away.

 

Jet glared. “Oh, that's the _first_ thing we're fixing.”

 

“ _**We** _ ? Hey, there is no _**we** _! I didn't say yes yet!”

 

“ … _our next bounty is for an embezzling scumbag. The company is real eager to get their hands on his one folks. The bounty is a 10-million woolongs for this creep! A drop in the bucket compared to the 800-billion he embezzled. Last seen in a stolen craft pictured here …”_

 

Spike and Jet glanced at the screen. A second later, the craft soared over their head in the hyperspace tunnel. They both did a double take.

 

“How long does this take to go through?” Spike held up the application.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See You Space Cowboy.


End file.
